The shadowmaker, p.16
The Shadowmaker, page 16
“Henry, how do we know this is safe? I mean, what kind of trouble was Darius in that he had to leave you some cryptic message like this?”
“I don’t know. But I plan on finding out.”
Her eyes remained fixated on the skyline in the distance. “Where is it? Six Harmony Court?”
“Waleska. About an hour north of here.”
Isabell released an anxious breath and returned to the coffee table. She then grabbed the poetry book and marched over to a buffet against the wall.
“What are you doing?” asked Henry.
“I’m putting this somewhere safe,” she replied as she removed a drawer from the buffet and placed it on the floor. “I need some duct tape.”
Henry went to the kitchen and rattled around for a few seconds before returning with a roll of thick gray tape. He handed it to her with a look of concern. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
“Absolutely not.” She tore a long piece from the roll, then taped the book to the back of the drawer. With a final push, she set the drawer back into its slot.
Henry looked down at the deciphered message and pulled a lighter from his pocket. He tore the page from the pad, then set it on fire and dropped it onto the table. “So, when do we leave?”
Isabell darted her eyes at the sliding glass door. “There’s a black Suburban parked across the street. You’re under surveillance, Henry.”
He stared at the table as the small blaze turned to ash. “Give me thirty minutes,” he said.
“Thirty minutes for what?”
He put on his coat and turned for the door. “I need to sweep the block, see if I catch a tail.”
“And if you do?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he corrected. “If they want to talk to me about Darius’ murder, I’ll be more than happy to tell them exactly what happened.”
“Fine,” she conceded. “Just be careful. I’ll wait for thirty minutes… then I’m leaving.”
CHAPTER 19
He stepped out into the cool October air and tucked his hands into his pockets. With a quick glance across the street, he lumbered south along the sidewalk. He continued on for two more blocks before dipping into an old, rundown pub. A set of Christmas lights hung over the bar and the soft melodies of country music resonated from a nearby jukebox.
As Henry took a seat on a wooden stool, he noticed a bearded drunk in a plaid flannel shirt slumped against the bar a few seats down from him. The bartender—an older gal hardened by years of mixing cocktails—acknowledged his presence with a slight nod.
“Vodka on the rocks,” he said pleasantly.
She spun the cap from a gallon of Stolichnaya and dipped a highball glass into a well of ice. The drink landed in front of him atop a small white napkin. As Henry pulled it to his lips, a tiny bell on the front door rang. A brisk wave of cold followed the newcomer in as he approached the bar and found a stool next to Henry.
“What took you so long?” Henry said under his breath.
Miles raised his index finger at the bartender. “Whiskey. Neat.” After a moment of silence, another highball glass hit the bar in front of them. “I’m sorry about Darius,” the agent offered. “Anything you want to tell me?”
“Stop fucking around,” Henry quietly charged. “Were you there? Did you see it go down?”
“No. We had you up to the driveway. By the time I circled the block to the park, it was over. Listen, we have all of sixty seconds to wrap this up, so you need to tell me everything you know.”
“Are there any more of you assholes outside?”
Miles slugged his whiskey. “I have a new partner. DCIS officer—solid guy. He’s parked in front of your building on Peachtree. Late-model maroon Pathfinder.”
“But you parked on Twelfth Street. Why? So I would see you?”
“Maybe.”
“All right, all I can tell you is that Darius and I met with Anton just before we went back to his place. He wanted to take a walk and chat about some things. Then he was killed. I never saw the shooter.”
“Henry, you know how this works. You were a witness to murder.”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
“No, not like this. You need to go to local law enforcement. Once they identify you, they’ll notify someone from the bureau to take your statement. But it’s gotta be by the book.”
Henry shook his head and slouched over his drink. “Well, I’m kinda busy right now.”
“Is that Isabell upstairs?”
“Yes, but it’s not what you’re thinking. I just watched my best friend get gunned down in a park. She stopped by to make sure I was okay.”
“Are you okay?”
“Of course I am.”
Miles stood from his stool and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “I expect to get a call tomorrow that you’re sitting at an APD station ready to give a witness statement. Don’t make me come knocking on your door.”
“Fine. I’ll pay them a visit as soon as I can.”
“Oh, and, Henry, one more thing. There isn’t a marine recruiter named Jacob within five hundred miles of here. Thought you should know.”
Henry furrowed his brow as the agent slipped out the front door. After finishing his drink, he settled the tab and took the same route back to his apartment.
“How’d it go?” Isabell asked as he entered the penthouse.
“Yeah, it’s definitely the feds.”
“I knew it. Whoever was sitting in that Suburban got out and walked down Twelfth Street right after you left.”
“Total amateur. I made him at the corner of Crescent.”
“All right,” she huffed, “so what now?”
“Now we slip out of the building unnoticed and drive to Waleska.”
“Tonight? You want to do this tonight?”
“Absolutely. I won’t be able to sleep until I find Colton Sinclair. If there’s someone out there who can tell me what happened to Darius, I need to find them. Tonight.”
“Fine. And how do you expect to get out of here without the feds following us?”
“You’re the tour guide—you tell me.”
With a roll of her green eyes, she reached for her purse and marched to the elevator.
Minutes later, Isabell’s blue Pathfinder pulled out of the parking lot.
Antonio Garza watched from his vehicle as she turned left onto Peachtree. “I’ve got Isabell DiMarco leaving the property,” the DCIS officer called into his handheld radio.
“Is she alone?” Miles asked.
“Affirmative, she’s alone.”
“That means Echo Target’s still in his apartment. I think we can call it a night. If he doesn’t file a police report in the next twenty-four hours, we’ll bring him in.”
“Roger that.”
As the two agents pulled their vehicles away from the property and headed back to FBI headquarters, Isabell’s SUV was miles away, merging onto I-75 North.
“Okay, we’re all clear,” she called out as her eyes scanned the rearview mirror.
Henry popped up from the back seat and crawled to the front. “The oldest trick in the book,” he proclaimed.
“Well, if we’d done it your way, I’d be rappelling down the side of your apartment building scared shitless right now.”
He managed a quick smile. In some strange way, he missed it—the pithy banter and light-hearted insults. No matter how much he fought it, he enjoyed being around her again.
They continued north out of the city and drove for another hour before getting off in Waleska. Nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, it was a seemingly endless landscape of rolling hills, old plantation homes, and fields of grazing cattle.
Under a setting sun, her GPS guided them west toward the historic downtown. Most of the businesses had been permanently boarded up. The few remaining signs of life included an old tavern, a hardware store, and a train depot that had been converted into a weekend farmers market, among other things.
“Sure is quiet out here,” Henry noted.
“Yeah, looks like Darius’ friend lives in the sticks.”
They pushed through the square and followed a long, dark road out of town, flanked by rows of expansive corn fields and farmhouses. After a few miles, Isabell turned right onto a dirt road—Harmony Court.
She crept the SUV up the path before coming to a stop and cutting the lights.
“That’s it up there,” she said, motioning up the road to an old black mailbox with the number six painted on it.
Henry peered out through the scant darkness. “Stay here. If you hear gunshots, leave.”
“Wait a second. What’s the plan here?”
“I’m going inside.”
“What if someone’s home? Henry, we don’t even know if this is the right place.”
“Either way, I’m going in. And I hope someone is home. I might finally get some answers.”
“I don’t like any of this,” she tried.
But there was no use.
“Just wait here. I’ll be fine.”
As he stepped out and examined the surrounding area, he could hear a dog barking somewhere in the distance. He paced across the dirt road and dipped into a thick forest, pushing further into the brush toward the homestead. It was a charming southern plantation house with peeling white paint and a crumbling chimney. Just beyond it, an old rickety barn rested in a field, struggling to hold itself upright.
There were no lights on inside the house and, like every other building in town, the place seemed cold and abandoned. There were no vehicles in the driveway, just a decades-old tractor rotting in the grass. Thick vines clung to its deflated tires and rusted side panels, pulling it slowly into the earth. Henry continued along the tree line toward the rear of the home. With one last gaze across the field, he lunged out into the tall grass and hurried to the back porch. He crouched through the shadows and pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster. With his back pressed against the house and his weapon secure in his hands, Henry peered into a window. Inside was a small room with two chairs and nothing more. Beyond it, a narrow hallway was blanketed in darkness.
He slid further along the side of the house until he reached the back door. He tucked the pistol away and retrieved the metal picks from his front pocket. His hands steadied as he slipped the two picks into the lock. It was almost too easy.
Under the light creak of the hinges, Henry crept into the home. He quickly retrieved his nine-millimeter and inched carefully through the kitchen. He reached the same hallway he’d seen through the window and craned his neck in each direction. As he took his first step onto the brown carpet, he heard an unmistakable sound: the pump action of a shotgun.
He was careful not a move a muscle. With a cautious exhale, he slowly held his pistol in the air.
“Drop it,” a voice instructed. The pistol fell to the carpet at his feet. “Hands on your head. Turn around and face me.”
Henry turned slowly. He could make out the dark silhouette of a man holding a shotgun, standing at the end of the hallway. A set of wind chimes rang ominously from the back porch as Henry stood dumbfounded, waiting for a blast of buckshot to slice him in half. “You must be lost,” the man finally asserted.
“I’m looking for someone,” Henry replied.
The silhouette stepped out of the shadows. With the shotgun still raised, the man patted Henry from shoulder to ankle with one hand. He then reached down to pick up the nine-millimeter before stepping away.
“Who is it you’re looking for?” the man finally asked. He was tall with large shoulders and forearms. He seemed older: mid- to late forties, Henry guessed.
“I’m looking for someone named Colton Sinclair.”
The man didn’t flinch. His face remained deep and cold—as if he’d done this a million times before. The long barrel of his shotgun hung threateningly in the air.
“Do you happen to know Mr. Sinclair?” Henry tried again.
“You won’t find him here. Now, why don’t you call your girlfriend parked up the street and tell her to come join us.”
“I can’t do that,” Henry argued. “I was sent here by a friend. He told me I could find Colton Sinclair at this address.”
“Who’s your friend?”
Henry took a moment to consider his answer. “Darius Martović.”
The man’s eyes cut to the front door, and then back to Henry. He was visibly nervous now.
“Please,” Henry begged. “Are you Colton Sinclair?”
“No. But you said Darius Martović sent you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Then why isn’t he here?”
Henry struggled to find his words. “Darius is dead,” he finally stated.
The shotgun slumped to the man’s side. “Then so is Colton Sinclair.”
CHAPTER 20
Isabell’s Pathfinder crawled up the long dirt drive. The headlights beamed ahead of her as Henry and the strange man stood awkwardly on the front porch. She parked on the grass and got out. “Everything all right?” she asked as she approached slowly.
The man on the porch stood motionless. She could see the shotgun hanging at his side.
Henry eyed her with a look of unease. “Yeah, we’re good,” he said.
She knew there were a set of code phrases that Ružaro members would use as warnings or signals, but Henry wasn’t using any of them.
“Get inside before someone sees us,” the stranger demanded, his shotgun still clutched in his hand. Henry and Isabell followed him in. “Have a seat,” he ordered, motioning with the barrel of the Mossberg toward a tattered couch.
Henry probed the room, scanning every square inch and committing it to memory. The place was simple and modern: a couch, a chair, a glass coffee table, and a bronze floor lamp in the far corner. He joined Isabell on the edge of the couch with his hands clasped in front of him.
“So, you must be Henry,” the man said through a thick layer of scruff.
“I am.”
“And who’s this?”
“This is a friend of mine, Isabell DiMarco.”
The man took a moment to examine them both. “I assume Darius left you something?”
“The poetry book,” said Henry. “And the cipher code.”
“I see.”
“May I ask who you are?”
“I’m A.J., a friend of Darius’.”
“A.J. what?”
“Just A.J.”
Henry wasn’t amused. “So tell me, A.J., what am I doing here? The message indicated there’s something beneath the house. A room.”
“You mind if I ask how Darius died?”
“I do, actually. Why don’t we start with you telling me what all this nonsense is about. Whose house is this? And how do you know Darius?”
“The house belongs to Colton Sinclair. And this ‘nonsense’ is about very important work that’s being done here.”
“What kind of work?”
“Secret work.”
Henry hung his head. He was tired of the wordplay. “You know, it’s been a long week and I’m short on patience. Why was Darius using the name Colton Sinclair? And how come I never knew about this place?”
“The pseudonym was for everyone’s protection. And the reason you didn’t know about this place is because Darius didn’t want you to know about it.”
“Until now?”
“Yes. Until now.”
“All right, A.J., back to my original question: why am I here?”
A.J.’s eyes listed toward Isabell. “Where are my manners? Ma’am, can I get you something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“And you, Mr. Sirola?”
Henry stood from the sofa. “Enough with the bullshit. Darius was murdered last night, and now you’re going to tell me what he was doing up here and why he was killed.”
A.J. rose from his chair and met Henry’s gaze. He studied his prey carefully, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Then, with learned precision, he snapped the Mossberg to Henry’s face. “Tell me how Darius died or I’ll kill you where you stand,” he snarled. “I won’t ask you again.”
Henry took a reluctant step backwards and sat down.
“Why don’t we just talk this out,” Isabell suggested nervously. “Please, put the gun down before someone gets hurt.”
A.J. lowered the weapon and returned to his chair.
“You’re not one of us,” Henry asserted. “I’m guessing you’re former military.”
“That would be an accurate assessment.”
“What branch?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, I guess it doesn’t. So what, are you, like, Darius’ little bodyguard or something?”
A.J was growing more impatient by the second. “Answer my fucking question,” he growled.
“Fine,” Henry granted. “Darius was shot last night in the park behind his house. I was with him.”
“Shot by who?”
“I don’t know. But it was a professional hit—suppressed pistol, quiet as the wind, two shots.”
“A rival gang maybe?”
Henry shrugged. “Who the hell knows. He died in my arms. I didn’t have time to ask him.”
“How did you survive, Henry? What happened, they just decided to let you live?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, all signs point to a hit. Their target was apparently Darius, not me.” Henry clenched his fists and gently tapped them on his knees. “So now that I’ve told you how he died, I think you owe me some answers.”
A.J. relaxed in his chair and laid the shotgun across his lap. “Fair enough. Darius hired me three years ago to help him with his work.”
“Well, I guess this makes you unemployed then, doesn’t it?” Isabell quipped.
“It’s not quite that simple,” replied A.J. “I was paid upfront for what’s going to happen next. In the event of Darius’ death, I am supposed to… get things where they need to be. So my apologies, but I’m still technically under contract.”
“What does that even mean?” Henry asked. “And stop being so goddamn dismissive about all this. Why am I here?”
“You really have no idea, do you?”
“No. Maybe you should explain it to me.”
